Sansaku: The First Sip
If Dow felt like a kite lifted in the wind, what he heard was the many-toned voice of the wind as it blew through the trees down below. He could still hear the flute, but now the sound came from many birds and animals. “What is that?”
She’d been wondering when he’d hear the windstones singing. “It’s my art. Do you remember that owl I was carrying when you first saw me?” He would never forget. It had changed the landscape of his soul. He didn’t need to answer, she was just summoning the memory.
“They’re monuments, like tombstones, but instead of sand-blasting names and dates, I crafted instruments of art to give their spirits voice. When the wind blows, like now, they remind me of what really matters in life and living.”
Dow could hardly believe what she was saying. He stopped her from saying more and said, “You told me your name, but I haven’t told you mine. My father is a Kraft and owns the cemetery and monument yard in Boulder, just like his father before him.” She liked the sound of his name, Dow Kraft. That fit.
He looked at the windstones and said, “You honor the dead in art that you hang in the trees, my father carved designs into rock and planted the body in the earth.”
There was more. Dow remembered his dream of the petroglyph and how it reminded Em of the design on the headboard of her parents’ bed. Not only was it so similar as to be the same, but he realized the way his father signed the stonecraft was two over-lapping circles that created a vertical and almond-shaped eye in the middle.
“I remember asking him,” Dow said, “and he wouldn’t tell me. But I could tell he was glad I had asked.”
He was near-sighted close to Em when he said this. Looking into both of her eyes at the same time created an optical illusion. Her two eyes fused into one, right in the middle. If it were possible and it seemed to be, this one eye was even more beautiful and aware than the two.
The mystical union is a transcendence of the two into one. This was happening to them. It wasn’t just the vision of the single eye, it was the movement of the two separate circles overlapping and forming a third.
There’s no wonder Freud put love-making on top. He just had a hard time staying there. He kept sliding down and back into the dark corners of his basement. He heard those wild dogs barking.
Jung climbed on top of the symbolic structure and let the winds of love blow him away, like Psyche was blown to Eros. Who would believe him if he used straight language? It’s why he wrote in code. Calling the psyche unconscious was like calling the universe un-earth. He would have preferred to say it’s about love and the soul.
Dahl brought them food in the evening and they ate under the cottonwoods and next to the green pool. The food was simple but sensual. Today he’d brought some wine and three glasses. He said, “Each cup of wine has seven sips and don’t forget, each sip is going to be the best.”
They had all the time in the world to eat and drink, but time didn’t matter here. Dahl was thinking about his own first sip of wine. He said, “Let’s drink to the fate that brought us here. I want you to remember how you felt on that day at that moment when you first saw each other.”
“Dow, do you remember that girl on a cow who carried a dead owl?”